Jack opened his eyes to a beam of afternoon sun leaking onto his face through a gap in the curtains that adorned the window across from his bed. When the bright light hit his eyes, a sharp pain shot through his head, and he immediately closed them and shoved his fists against them to block it out.

He was miserable. His head was pounding, his throat dry and sore. His stomach churned, and if it weren't empty, he surely would've been doubled over vomiting.

Jack let out a low, strained groan as he clutched his head and rolled over to lay on his side. He couldn't remember too much of the previous night, the latter half of it being nothing but a big blur. He remembered arriving at the bar and talking to Mr. Weaver, the bartender, as he drowned his sorrows. But the more drinks he'd had, the more fogged the memories became until the point where they were just black. Though he hadn't a clue how or when he'd ended up there, he was grateful that he'd woken up in his bed rather than in the gutter outside.

Jack sat up, gripping the headboard of the bed for support when a wave of dizziness nearly pushed him back down. He squinted his eyes open and winced when the light bleeding through the curtains assaulted them once more. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he shakily rose to his feet and stumbled blindly to the window to draw the curtains closed.

With the room a bit dimmer, he could finally bear to look around. Though when his eyes caught his reflection in a mirror on the wall, he wished he hadn't. He scowled at the image of himself in the mirror; he looked just as pathetic as he felt. His clothes were covered in dry, crusty mud, and his greasy, unkempt hair was no longer hidden by a hat.

His hands flew to his head as the realization that the hat was missing hit him. His heart jumped into his throat, and he clutched handfuls of his hair as he frantically scanned the room in search of it. His mind raced. He couldn't have lost it, he just couldn't. It was all he really had left of—

He breathed a sigh of relief when he quickly spotted it sitting neatly on the chest at the foot of his bed and thanked God that it had somehow found its way there. Resting his hand on his chest in an attempt to calm his racing heart, he made his way back towards the bed.

Jack sat down on the edge of the bed and shifted in discomfort when the revolver at his belt jabbed his thigh. Groaning in annoyance, he pulled it from its holster and held it in his lap. He stared down at it, running his thumb along the ornate engraving that decorated the cold iron barrel. He found the beauty of it somewhat ironic. It was strange how something so destructive, so dangerous, could be dressed up to seem beautiful. Frowning, he turned the gun in his hand to view the embossing from another angle but froze when he realized he had turned it on himself.

He clenched his jaw and furrowed his eyebrows as he stared into the barrel. Oddly enough, it wasn't the first time he'd looked at a gun that way. He remembered how he had naively, stupidly done the same when his father had first taught him how to shoot.

Jack had held the unfamiliar object in his hands, curiously observing it from every angle. When he'd ended up mindlessly pointing the gun towards his face to inspect the barrel, his father immediately snatched it out of his hands and scolded him for holding it that way.

"Never. Ever. Do that again," he had said.

"My finger weren't even near the trigger," Jack said, rolling his eyes at what he had then perceived to be an overreaction.

His father bit his lip and took a deep breath to calm himself before responding, "It don't matter, boy. You don't ever point a gun at yourself. You hear me?"

Jack grumbled an apology and replied, "I hear you."

But still, as he sat alone in his room, his father's past admonitions replaying in his head, he continued to stare into the barrel of the gun. He never had been a good listener, after all.

And he figured it wouldn't be a big deal if the gun were to go off anyway. It wasn't like he had any reason left to hope for it not to. His obsession with revenge and his mother were all he lived for the past few years. With neither of those things left to give him purpose, what was the point?

His grip on the gun tightened, and he cocked the hammer back. His memories were horrifying, and as hard as he tried, they were impossible to shut off. He didn't even have any good memories he could latch onto, as they only served as reminders of how much he'd lost. He was alone in the world, and he was tired. God, was he tired— tired of the constant internal battles with the past, tired of life. His vision blurred as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

He thought death couldn't possibly be any worse than continuing to live a life full of jaded misery.

A sharp knocking on the door startled him, and his grip on the revolver loosened. He blinked away the tears in his eyes and set the gun on the bed beside him before standing and shuffling to the door.

He cracked the door open, scrunching his face when the light from the uncovered bar windows flooded into the room. When he saw that it was Mrs. Howard standing outside his room, he opened it a bit further.

"Ma'am," Jack greeted.

"Thought I heard you shufflin' 'round up here," she said, flashing him a sympathetic smile.

"What is it?" he asked impatiently. He wasn't particularly in the mood for conversation.

"Just wanted to make sure you're doin' alright. Mr. Weaver and I were worried 'boutcha," she said, her brows turning upwards in concern as she spoke. "You took quite the bump on the head last night."

Jack subconsciously raised his hand and rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head. Well, that explained why this hangover was particularly painful.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said and started to slowly shut the door.

"Hang on," Mrs. Howard protested and shoved her foot against the door to stop him from closing it. "Here." She extended a tall glass of water to him.

He stared blankly at the glass for a second before taking it. "Um, thanks," he said.

"And if you want something to eat, you come let us know, alright?"

"Okay…"

"Take care." She smiled at him and stepped back to leave.

Jack gave a terse nod in response and shut the door. Now acutely aware of just how thirsty he was, he immediately downed the glass of water she'd given him, spilling some of it on his shirt in his eagerness. He set the now-empty glass on a coffee table in the middle of the room and returned to his bed.

Jack stood in front of the bed and scowled at the revolver sitting atop the sheets, a wave of guilt running through him for the thoughts he'd had when he was holding it. Mr. Weaver and Mrs. Howard had always been so kind to him. They were some of the few people in town that knew his father wasn't the monster that the papers had made him out to be. And after he died, they looked on Jack with sympathy and compassion while so many others only shunned him for his last name.

They didn't deserve to have to find him there dead in his bed, to live with that burden. He couldn't do it. Not there. It wouldn't be right. He picked up the gun, carefully uncocked it, and tossed it onto the floor by the bed; it hit the ground with a dull thud. Then he flopped face down onto his bed and buried his face into the pillow, resolving to just lie there and feel sorry for himself for the rest of the afternoon.

—

He spent the subsequent few days without leaving the saloon, going back and forth between the bar, the poker table, and his bedroom in a seemingly endless loop. Had he not run out of cigarettes, he probably would have never stepped foot outside again.

When he finally exited the saloon to head to the store, he squinted, the warmth of unfiltered sunlight hitting his face for the first time in days. The pleasant weather had brought many people out of their homes to bring the town to life; they lined the streets, peering in shop windows and cheerfully conversing and laughing with one another. A young woman stood on the street corner near the entrance to the general store, filling the air with the sweet sound of a violin as two older women watched and threw change into a little jar by her feet. Looking up to the sky, Jack took a second to relish in the fresh air that filled his lungs and the gentle melody that filled his ears.

He stepped down from the curb and started across the street towards the general store, the music becoming louder as the distance between himself and the instrument was closed. When he reached out to open the shop door, one of the women watching the violinist narrowed her eyes at him and clutched her small handbag closer to her frame. He scowled at the ground, taking offense to her unwarranted suspicion of him, and swung the door open.

The man behind the register gave Jack a standard, robotic welcome-in as he busied himself with straightening the shelves behind the counter.

Jack greeted him back with a simple, "Sir."

At the sound of his voice, the shopkeeper looked up and locked eyes with him, giving him a warm smile when he recognized him. "Oh, hey, Marston," he said. "It's been a while. How ya doin'?"

"Alright," Jack mumbled as he began to make his way across the shop towards the stock of tobacco.

"Gettin' more candies for your ma?"

Jack's lip twitched at the mention of his mother, and he breathed deeply before soberly answering, "No, I… I'm not."

He hurriedly grabbed a random pack of cigarettes, strolled to the counter, and set them down in front of the shopkeeper, an intense eagerness to leave beginning to burn within him.

The man continued obliviously, "Ya sure? Got some new kinds. I think she'd really—"

"I don't want 'em," Jack suddenly snapped, shooting him a dirty look.

Jack felt guilty for the outburst when dismay overtook the man's previously warm demeanor. He knew the shopkeeper was just trying to be friendly and make a sale; he'd spoken to him many times before, and those words wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest a week earlier. But now, they felt like knives in his chest.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, barely audible as his shoulders slumped. "She… she died," he explained, avoiding eye contact with the man and trying futilely to control the shaking in his voice. "'Bout a week ago."

The man's face reddened, his eyes widened and his mouth fell slightly agape. "Oh, Christ, I…" he began stammering. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

"It's fine," Jack interrupted, biting his lip and averting his gaze to the door. He fished some money out of his pocket and tossed it onto the counter to pay for the cigarettes before grabbing them and immediately turning to leave.

The shopkeeper scraped the change off of the counter and called out after him, "Hang on, you gave me a little too much."

"Just keep it," Jack said with a dismissive wave of his hand, never faltering in his stride to the door. He figured that however much he'd overpaid was a fair enough price for getting out of that conversation.

As he exited the store, a man shoved past him, nearly knocking him to the ground. Jack regained his balance, irritation flooding through him, ready to berate the man for not looking where he was going. But he'd already disappeared down the alleyway behind the store.

"Hey!" the young violinist that had been playing outside angrily shouted after him, the music coming to a sudden halt with a screech that made Jack cringe.

He looked curiously over at her; she was frowning at the ground, her hands, still tightly gripping the instrument, hanging loosely at her sides. She kicked the ground, and the anger on her face morphed into disappointment. He noticed that the little jar she had had earlier was missing and put two and two together; that man had stolen it.

She set the instrument in her hands on a bench in front of the shop window, plopped down beside it, and slouched, clutching her forehead with one of her hands. Seeing the defeated look on her face, Jack couldn't help but feel bad for her. He glanced at the alleyway then back to the despondent girl and sighed. If his father were here, he wouldn't have hesitated to run after the thief to get the money back, or even to give her some of his own as consolation. Not having much of anything to give her, Jack decided to do the former and started off behind the shop, hoping the man might still be there.

Sure enough, he found the thief a ways down the alley, leaning against the wall and rooting through the jar of money he'd swiped from the young woman. He was an older man, quite short, and wore dirty, tattered clothing that hung off his slim frame. Jack figured he shouldn't be too hard to deal with.

Jack rested his hands on his belt and called out, "Excuse me."

The thief briefly looked up at him and rolled his eyes. "Piss off, boy."

Jack ignored the man's words and pointed at the jar in his dirty hand. "You stole that," he said. "From that girl."

He shrugged and replied, unbothered, "Dumb bitch shouldn'ta left it there." Then he emptied the coins inside the jar into his hand and shoved them into his pants pocket.

"Just give it back," Jack said coldly, already growing impatient.

The man chuckled in derision and pushed himself off of the wall. Throwing the glass jar on the ground and shattering it, he stepped forward until he was standing inches from Jack. He glared up at him, and hissed, "Make me."

Jack turned his head a bit to the side and grimaced as the man's rancid breath assaulted his nose. He looked back at him to find an ugly smirk on his face; it enraged him. In a swift motion, he grabbed the collar of the thief's stained shirt and shoved him onto the ground. The man hit the dirt several feet away from Jack, landing hard on his arm, and cried out in pain. Shock and fear briefly flickered on his face when he stared up at Jack.

Jack pulled his revolver out of its holster and trained it on the man's chest.

"Y-Yer bluffin'," he spat.

He almost certainly was, but he couldn't let this man think it, so Jack responded by shooting the dirt beside him, missing him by only inches.

"Alright, alright. Goddamn," he quickly relented, shoved his hand in his pocket, and tossed the money he'd stolen onto the ground at Jack's feet. "Take it, ya little bastard."

Jack stared at the coins strewn about the dirt and drew his brows together. The amount of money at his feet was decidedly less than the amount that had been in the jar the man stole— that piece of shit was trying to pull one over on him. "That all of it?" Jack barked, retraining his revolver on the man's face. "It don't look like it."

The man froze for a second before groaning and producing the rest of the money from his pocket; the coins joined the others on the ground.

Satisfied, Jack put the gun away, and the man in front of him visibly relaxed. Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to quell the anger inside of him. When he opened them, the man was still lying on the ground, staring hatefully at him. Jack returned the contemptful gaze and stomped towards him, breathing heavily with his fists clenched at his sides.

The man defensively stretched his hand out in front of him as Jack approached him. "Hey, hey, don't! I did whatcha—"

Jack pulled him back up to his feet by his collar and pushed him away. The old man stumbled backwards and rested his hand on a wall to keep from falling over again. He looked back at Jack with an expression of confused surprise.

Jack locked eyes with him, nodded towards the direction of the street, and coolly ordered, "Get lost."

The thief let out a subtle sigh of relief and shook his head. "Fuckin' Marstons," he grumbled as he hobbled away, cradling his injured arm.

Jack glared after him, wanting to ensure that the man left the area before he crouched down to pick the change up off of the ground. He cupped the now dirt-covered coins in his palm and observed them; it wasn't too large a sum— a few dollars at the most. He rose back to his feet and carefully scanned the ground to make sure he'd gotten them all. Not seeing anything left lying in the dirt, he began the short walk back out to the street.

He swiftly rounded the corner out of the alley, freezing when he spotted the young woman who'd been robbed still sitting outside the general store. She was frowning down at the violin which she now held in her lap, the straw boater hat on her head casting a dark shadow over the top half of her face.

He approached her slowly and stopped in front of her, though she didn't look up. "I— uh— I got you your money back," he spoke softly to get her attention, holding the change out to her in his palm.

"Wow, I…" She stared in disbelief at the coins in his hand for a moment. "Thank you," she said as she took them and placed them in a pocket in her skirt.

"Don't mention it."

She looked up at him and gave him a small, grateful smile but did a slight double-take when she met his gaze. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's you again."

He stared at her, perplexed, as he was sure he'd never seen this girl in his life before today. She stood up, and he took a small step back to give her space.

Seemingly aware of his confusion, she said, "I helped you at the bar a few nights ago?" When he only kept staring blankly at her, she took her hat off, revealing dark hair tied neatly into a bun, and continued, "I was fillin' in for Mr. Lauterback on the piano."

Jack shook his head. "I-I'm sorry, miss, but… I can't remember much of the time I spent there," he said.

"Oh. Right."

"I appreciate it, though," he quickly added when he noticed her shoulders slump a bit. "Thank you, miss…" he trailed off, not knowing her name.

"Lilly Sc—" She stopped and cleared her throat. "Adams. Lilly Adams."

"Jack Marston," he said, and, surprisingly, she didn't shrink back upon hearing his last name. She must not have been in town long. She certainly didn't sound like she was from anywhere around Blackwater; she had some sort of New England accent.

"Well, it's nice to formally meet you, Mr. Marston." She looked down and chuckled a little. "And nice to see you standin' up straight."

He tried to muster up a polite laugh for the joke, but he didn't find it funny. It was embarrassing to think about what a fool he must've made of himself when blacked out in the saloon. So the sound came out as more of an irritated grunt.

"I'm sorry. I didn't… I shouldn't have said that," she said, her cheeks going red.

"It's fine," Jack said, looking to the side. "Um… I should get going." He turned to leave.

"Wait," she protested.

He stopped and faced her again, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Thank you again. I…" She reached into her pocket, pulled out some of the money he'd given back to her, and extended it out to him. "Here. For your kindness."

He put his hands up and took a step back. "Oh, no. That's alright."

"Please."

"I don't want it," he said firmly, shaking his head.

The girl rolled her eyes at his chivalry. She grabbed his hand, shoved the money into his palm, and held it there. "I insist."

"Miss Adams!" an older woman's voice rang out from across the street.

She released Jack's hand, leaving the money in it, and they watched as the woman crossed the street to join them. "Mrs. Lowe," Lilly greeted with a sort of strained courtesy.

Mrs. Lowe grinned at Lilly as she approached, but when her eyes landed on Jack, the smile was instantly wiped from her face. The woman leaned in closer to the girl and muttered under her breath, "Is this boy bothering you?"

Jack averted his gaze and scowled, his fist tightening around the coins Lilly had given him.

"What? No." Lilly's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "He was helpin' me," she clarified and shot Jack a smile.

Mrs. Lowe looked him up and down with a raised brow and asked, "Was he, now?" as she drew her lips into a thin line. Jack fidgeted under her cold gaze.

She looked back at Lilly and murmured, "Come over here, dear; let me talk to you," before gently grabbing the younger woman's shoulder to lead her away from him. The old woman glanced back at Jack as they walked away and said, her voice dripping with condescension, "Excuse us."

Jack frowned as he watched the women round the corner and disappear from sight, the younger briefly looking back at him, bemused. He knew what the old woman was likely going to say to the girl; he didn't even need to hear. She'd convince her that he was somehow dangerous— despite him having done nothing wrong other than sharing his father's slandered name. It was something he'd gotten bitterly used to.

He raised his hand and scowled at the small sum of cash still resting in his palm, wishing she hadn't given it to him. He didn't need it; knowing him, it would most definitely be wasted on alcohol or gambled away within a week. Assuming he was even around that long, at least.

He glanced down at the bench, scoffing when he noticed her violin still sitting there, the case right beside it. No wonder she got robbed, the way she left her things around so carelessly like that, he thought. Though her negligence at least gave him an opportunity to return the money without her knowing; he could just slip it into the instrument's case for her to find later.

He looked around to make sure no one was watching him; should anyone see the infamous 'Marston boy' messing with it, they'd definitely assume that he was up to no good. Finding the coast clear, he cracked the case open just enough to slip the coins she'd given him inside.

He then turned on his heel and pulled the cigarettes he'd bought out of his pocket, lighting one up as he hurried away.